


Kom svevn og sval meg smertefritt

by Squoxie



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:21:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24608365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squoxie/pseuds/Squoxie
Summary: Come sleep and swallow me painlessly - some things are simply meant to be, and to happen as they must. Cedric has many thoughts on the subject.
Relationships: Cedric/Iorveth (The Witcher)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	Kom svevn og sval meg smertefritt

**Author's Note:**

> Thnx to thechemicalgirl (and my friend Spoopy!) for beta reading!   
> For translations to a few Elder Speech phrases, look at the bottom notes ;3

The forest is peaceful. There is always activity beyond the rustling trees, amongst bushes, under roots, in the ground and sky, but it is peaceful, because it simply _is_. What dies, dies. What lives survives to another day. There is no cruelty to it, not like so-called sentient beings are capable of. Nature does as nature wills. Gives life. Takes life. Is life. Whatever life is supposed to be, in the end.

Cedric sighs, lowering yet another empty bottle, chasing the sharp taste of vodka on his lips with a flick of his tongue. He should check his snares. He should do a lot of things. But it’s so much nicer to just sit in the embrace of the forest, packing away his troubled mind in cottony fog.

Seherim might worry though. Such a concerned elf, that one. But Cedric would rather not concern him too much, so he supposes he should get going.

He climbs to his feet, stretching, and then almost stumbling at the sudden dizziness that comes over him. Oh well. He puts the empty bottle in his satchel, having no intention of leaving it littering the forest grounds, and saunters somewhat unsteadily off to go through his snares. He should probably have brought his bow, too, do some proper hunting, but at this point he’s not sure he would hit anything. Or hit it badly, which is in some ways worse.

The first snare he checks is empty. The next is not, but the rabbit caught in it is naught but a rabbit kit, and so he releases it just as well, watching the terrified thing scurry into the underbrush. He rubs the back of his neck, smiling wanly after it. Perhaps it will learn to be more careful. Perhaps it will not.

He moves onwards to the other snares, and finds most to be empty. One contains a grown rabbit, however, and he swiftly kills it, tying it to his belt. Not much of a catch today, but he is hardly surprised, the way the Scoia’tael run about the forest. He does not begrudge them that they too need food, but he would have liked it if they could keep it in mind that there are others who need sustenance too.

Something flashes behind his eyes, there and gone, and he stumbles. Fuck. He needs more vodka. And sleep. Just sleep. To Lobinden, then.

He manages to get to Lobinden somehow, his feet knowing the way despite his head fucking him up, though he can hardly remember what way he took. Seherim is waiting for him, a hand compulsively smoothing down the patch over his left eye and his expression set in uneasy concern, followed by relief. Then, again, concern and something like exasperation.

“Cedric! Won’t you please stay _here_ when you’re drunk?” Seherim despairs. “What if you trip and- and break your neck? We need you here.”

“At which point am I _not_ drunk?” Cedric queries dryly.

Seherim gives him a sad look, closer to a grimace than anything, and Cedric sighs, clasping a hand to his shoulder. He does appreciate Seherim’s concern, even if he finds it unnecessary. There is simply very little point in it. Even were something to happen, then perhaps it is simply time for it. He is old. He is tired. But, as ever, a coward. He won’t do anything about it on his own, for better or for worse.

“Cedric, please…” Seherim says softly, reaching out.

Cedric smiles crookedly, and accepts the given embrace, folding his arms around Seherim in turn.

“I’m sorry, Seherim. I’m a bit moody today,” he apologises.

Seherim nods mutely in understanding, tucking his head in the crook of Cedric’s neck. Cedric tightens his grip on the other elf, closing his eyes and simply revelling in the closeness. He misses, most of all, the time when intimacy and affection was shared freely at any given moment. Nowadays, everyone is too guarded to dare.

He misses a lot of things from before. Before his head fucked itself up. Before the fighting. Before everything.

Seherim makes a soft, indecipherable noise, and reluctantly pulls back, placing a chaste kiss at Cedric’s jaw. Cedric smiles at him, trying not to let his sadness show too much, and pulls a hand gently through loose locks of hair.

“Thank you, Seherim,” he says. “I need to sleep, I think.”

“Go sleep,” Seherim agrees. “I- tomorrow, if you have the time, could you- that is, would you help me-?”

Cedric tries not to wince. “I will help you look for traces of Moril,” he agrees, abruptly exhausted. “But I am afraid we will find nothing more now, than we yet have.”

Seherim nods, lips pressed tight as he blinks rapidly. He misses his beloved, and Cedric understands it, understand the ache and the loss and the desperate hope. He just cannot believe it will end well. Moril has been gone for too long. And even if they do find her, what shape will she be in? No, he has long since learnt not to be too optimistic when people disappear without a word.

Seherim gives him a brave smile, and moves off with determination, off to take care of one thing or another. Cedric looks after him for a long moment, then rubs gently at the scar on the bridge of his nose. Tomorrow. For now, sleep. More vodka, and then sleep.

~

There is naught to find of Moril, as Cedric expected. Seherim pretends not to be crushed, and Cedric pretends not to notice.

Life is filled with pretending, now. Little white lies, gathering together into towering piles of untruths. How many lies before it all crashes down? How many, before an avalanche descends with a rumble, before a tidal wave washes over all there is? White lies are not meant to cause harm. And yet, decisions made on behalf of truth or lie, for protection or harm, they all source back to choices made. Choices are… hard.

Cedric wishes he could dream of peaceful times. He wishes he could simply sleep. And yet, there are things to do, and so do them he must.

The day goes by slowly, and were he of mind to admire it, Cedric could even describe it as being idyllic. Wind rustles through the leaves, sunlight decorating the ground in mottled patterns, and the sound of children laughing and playing carries from Flotsam. There are no children in Lobinden. It makes him sad.

That is really the best word to describe how he feels, isn’t it? Sad. Simple, to the point. Everything he is not, yet everything that he is, too, contained in such a small word.

Something feels off. What, he doesn’t know. There is a tension, somewhere, somehow. Not in the denizens of Lobinden, that he can see, nor in the forest itself, and yet… is it only in his head? Maybe. Foreboding.

Uneasy, he takes a swig of his bottle. Are the Scoia’tael on the move? Are the Flotsam guard? Is something burning…?

He shakes his head, grimacing. “Enough,” he mutters.

“What?” Seherim asks, climbing up on the platform. Cedric shakes his head again, throwing him a half-hearted smile.

“Nothing.”

Seherim chews on his lower lip, but merely nods and settles at the edge of the platform, looking out towards the forest. He tucks a lock of hair behind his ear, brows furrowing, and Cedric waits, recognising that Seherim has something or other he wants to say.

“Cedric… do you think the Scoia’tael have done something again? The guardsmen of Flotsam are like antagonised bees, today. But… they didn’t even hurl insults at me for once, so I’m not sure.”

Cedric frowns. That bodes ill. Is that the cause of the tension he has noticed? But if they refrained from yelling abuse at an elf, it seems unlikely that the cause of it is elven in nature. Perhaps something has happened in Flotsam itself? Or further in Temeria, for that matter? Who knows? He certainly does not.

“Best be careful,” he suggests. “Even if the Scoia’tael is not the cause for their unease, something tells me things are about to change. And not necessarily for the better.”

Seherim nods, concern sweeping over his face, before settling in determination. He will do what is needed to protect Lobinden and its denizens, and he will do it well when he needs to. Cedric has every faith in his success, come what may.

He shivers. He feels cold, now, icy shivers spreading down his spine. Concerning.

~

Cedric is setting up a snare when he notices he is no longer alone. He recognises the presence though, and so simply continues working on the snare until there is a pointed rustle, and the creak of a bow being drawn.

“Are you going to shoot me now, Iorveth?” he asks, looking up.

Iorveth scowls at him, lips thin and eye narrowed. He is as striking as ever, though it has been some time since Cedric last saw him. His shoulders are heavy with the weight of expectations, authority… loss, too. How many elves lost to futile conflict, now? Too many, Cedric knows. He cannot make himself consider the numbers.

“You’re infringing on Scoia’tael territory,” Iorveth says. “Go back to your precious dh’oine, Cedric.”

Cedric tilts his head, smiling sadly. “You needn’t be so angry with me, Iorveth. It is neither going to bring you joy, nor any form of completion. Only exhaustion, I think. It’s tiring to be angry. Especially so when there’s nothing to do about it.”

Iorveth looks no happier by that, but then, Cedric hardly expected him to.

“Go away, Cedric. Take your snare with you, and stay closer to town, or you’ll get hurt.”

Cedric sighs, pulling a hand over his face. “Is that what it comes to?” he questions. “Fighting for elven rights, and harming those that do not agree with your way of doing things, whether elf, dh’oine, or whatnot? If it has come to _that_ , Iorveth, you have already lost.”

Iorveth sneers viciously. “You made your choice, and it was divergent to ours. And until every one of us is dead, we _will_ fight.”

“I could not have chosen otherwise, Iorveth,” Cedric replies wearily. “But I did not mean to hurt you.”

“ _Leave_ ,” Iorveth hisses.

Cedric holds his hands up placatingly, and easily undoes what work he has done on preparing his snare. “As you wish, then. But Iorveth… something is coming. There will be fire… and blood. There’s always so much blood…”

Iorveth’s expression softens, though it mostly makes him look bitter and tired. “What will be, will be. Go drink yourself into a stupor, and stop butting in where you’re not wanted,” he says.

Cedric goes, snare in hand. There is hardly any point in antagonising Iorveth further, even if the younger elf is really antagonising himself. Even so, a dull ache flares in his chest. Iorveth is beautiful. Great and terrible. He has loved him for too long to know how to stop, but he knows it is futile, with no future. The choice he made was not meant to cause harm, but so it did, in the end. How cruel a choice it was, to stand between one’s own health and one’s loved one. But Cedric knows he could not have chosen otherwise, or he would be dead instead of drunk. He doubts Iorveth would have been pleased with that, either.

He wishes Iorveth would listen to his warning, though. He will be, he _is_ , involved. As are they all. He’s scared. And he doesn’t even know why. Maybe he should simply go and get absolutely roaring drunk, and pretend it doesn’t feel as if his heart is bleeding.

~

The beginning of the end, Cedric thinks, is the arrival of the Special Forces of Temeria to Flotsam. Cedric hears them before he sees them, listens to the conflict taking place between the trees before Commander Vernon Roche appears with a woman over his shoulder, a white-haired witcher following along behind him. Harried, but unharmed.

Cedric can see the bright red of Iorveth’s headscarf through the leaves, a banner, a promise of blood. But there is someone else with Iorveth, too. They are too far, and Cedric’s eyes too affected by his drinking, to see properly. But he shivers, and lifts his hand to find it trembling. Why? What is it his subconscious knows that he does not? If it isn’t simply his mind playing tricks on him…

Iorveth disappears, his companion leaving with him. And even so, Cedric cannot stop the shaking of his hands, the tremble of his ears.

“Eigean evelienn deireádh…” he mumbles to himself. “Que’n esse.”

~

Flotsam is a hub of activity after the arrival of the Blue Stripes and the witcher. Cedric watches and listens from Lobinden, can feel the tension building, anger and fear, determination and desperation, duty and greed, all clashing against each other, whirling together into a pool of discontent. Cedric fears, too. Not for Flotsam, truly, but for Lobinden. The people of Flotsam are stirred to hatred against all that is unalike them, and it is Lobinden that will pay for it, whether now or in the future.

The witcher, at least, is a calm presence. The eye of the storm, perhaps. Geralt of Rivia. Cedric has heard of him before, under the name Butcher of Blaviken, under the name White Wolf. The cat-eyed man is no butcher, in truth, and so Cedric calls him by the elven variant of Gwynbleidd.

He finds himself amused when the witcher disparagingly asks if he should return to speak with Cedric when he’s sober. He never is, anymore. Hasn’t been for a long time. A bit of intoxication, a lot… so long as he doesn’t See things, so long as he doesn’t have to Feel and Know…

No, he is going to remain drunk until he dies. But then, that might not be so far away.

He doesn’t want to die. But does he want to live? He’s not so certain about that. He exists because he exists, drifting, with little purpose asides hunting, making traps, aiding Lobinden.

He sometimes wishes he could still believe in Iorveth’s cause. Wishes the blood on his hands didn’t give him nightmares, slotting neatly in with all else that torments his battered mind. Wishes he could return to what they had, the two of them, the sweet words, the soft touches, the trust and affection and love.

But it does not do to yearn for the past.

He tells Gwynbleidd what he wishes to know, regardless, of the forest, of the Kayran in the bay. Few know the forest better than he, and though Cedric thinks it unwise to antagonise the Scoia’tael, dangerous to take on the Old Man, he thinks Gwynbleidd will do well enough. He is skilled, and not unkind. Looks a fright, to some, but the measured tone of his voice, the calm he carries, it will help him, for all that he is missing memories, missing knowledge of himself.

-flickering images behind his lids, a battlefield, mist- he shakes his head, rubs at his eyes. Gwynbleidd’s sorceress friend, the lovely Triss, gives him a considering look, and says nothing.

Silence sometimes speaks more than words, Cedric muses. But he’s not sure what to think of it, and so he simply doesn’t.

~

He finds himself in the forest, without really knowing why. It is late, he is so very drunk, and yet he knows he is within what Iorveth considers his territory. A bad idea, and yet, perhaps one spurred by heartache, no more, no less. Foolish of him. But then, Cedric has never claimed not to be a fool.

He leans against a tree, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead into the bark of it, pleading wordlessly for the world to stop spinning. He is too drunk to be out here, it’s too dangerous at this time of day, too many monsters and predators active. But- no, it isn’t now he will die, not yet. Not yet. The thought makes his side sting, as if with phantom pain. He feels faint, fingers numb.

“Cedric? You damned fool.”

Cedric’s breath hitches, and his eyes burn with unshed tears. “I’m sorry, Iorveth,” he mumbles. “I’m so sorry.”

Iorveth makes a disgruntled sound at the back of his throat, but Cedric can hear a faint note of concern within it as well, and then there is a leather glove at his cheek, gently turning his head. He opens his eyes, failing miserably at his weak attempt of a smile, and Iorveth frowns at him, looking unhappy and tired. Even so, his hand is oh so gentle, a reminder of better times.

“What’s wrong with you now? You’re not normally so erratic, you drunkard,” Iorveth says, and even the insult sounds near to an endearment more than anything.

“I am afraid,” he admits, voice quivering, hoarse. “Ess’tedd, Iorveth.”

A muscle jumps in Iorveth’s jaw, and his hand twitches, before he huffs and draws Cedric into an embrace. “Time for what? What are you afraid of? Everything is fine, Cedric. You’ve simply had too much to drink. There is no blood, no fire. Everything is _fine_.”

Cedric laughs wetly, sinking into the warm, warm embrace and hiding his face at Iorveth’s throat, breathing in the scent of him, so very comforting.

“To wish for ease, for sleep to swallow me painlessly- is it so much to ask for?” he whispers.

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about, Cedric,” Iorveth says, frustration clear in his voice, for all that he only pulls Cedric closer. “Have you lost what sense you had left?”

Cedric sniffs, and cannot hold the tears back any longer. They spill over his cheeks, paint his lips with salt before soaking into Iorveth’s padded armour, and Iorveth tenses. He only takes one hand up to the back of Cedric’s head though, very gently rubbing circles against his scalp.

“Cedric… you need to go sleep, and you need to stop coming out here,” he murmurs.

Cedric swallows, his breath uneven. “I know. I know,” he agrees. It’s not going to be a problem much longer. And yet-

He surges up despite his better judgement, slants his head and presses lips tasting of salt to soft lips torn at the side. Iorveth stiffens, but then acquiesces with a sigh, deepening the kiss. It tastes like sweet memories and bitter regrets.

Iorveth ends the kiss, pushes him away. Still gentle, so gentle, as if Cedric is glass about to break. He might well be.

“Go home, Cedric. Drink water, get some sleep. Don’t- don’t come out here again.”

Cedric smiles sadly, rubbing at the wet tracks of salt over his cheeks. “I love you,” he says softly, and he knows how devastating it is to hear, can see it in the lines of Iorveth’s shoulders. But he needs to know.

“I love you, and I will _always_ love you,” he repeats. “Just know that, Iorveth. When I am gone, just know that.”

Iorveth shakes his head. “You’re not going to die, Cedric,” he says harshly. After a moment though, his expression softens. “But you must know I will never cease loving you, either.”

Cedric feels as if his heart is going to burst.

“Go now,” Iorveth says. Cedric nods, allowing his eyes to take in every detail of the striking, beautiful elf that once was his. He hopes so very dearly that Iorveth will find someone else, someone who can give him what he needs.

“Va faill, Iorveth,” he whispers.

“I’ll see you,” Iorveth replies pointedly.

But he won’t. Not while Cedric is alive. But now… now he has said goodbye, even if Iorveth does not yet understand. He will.

Somehow, there is peace in that.

~

When Triss comes asking for help, Cedric knows that it is time. He’s not sure how, why, but he knows. He cannot quite hide his resignation from her, but though she asks, he assures her everything is fine. That which will happen must happen, and he is but a small part of that, insignificant in the greater scheme of things. Not to mention that he has had a long life already, and it is time to accept that it is to end.

He has to kill a dh’oine, to get to the room Triss wishes to look at, the one belonging to the sorceress Síle. He uses his bow, but it does not change how his hands shake afterwards, how he blinks and they’re full of blood, blinks again, and there is nothing there.

He leaves Triss to do her magic, to speak with another sorceress. Takes up guard, for all that he has a feeling there is no purpose to it. She asks him to, and that is enough. Flutters her eyelashes at him too, which mostly makes him amused, as he knows she doesn’t mean it as anything but a small jest. She’s sweet. Quite young, he thinks, and as most magicians, with a habit of some manipulation, but still quite sweet.

Death comes in the form of a hulking man with cat’s eyes. Cedric tries to stop him, futile though he knows it to be, and is rewarded by a sword driven right through his abdomen and a neutral, uninterested glance. He is not even an obstacle, to this man.

He’s on his knees, and then on the floor, head spinning, life flowing out of him like water flowing out of a broken pot. He tries to push himself up, tries to say something, but only manages a dry, pained croak as he watches the man – the kingslayer, _Letho_ – threaten the sorceress into compliance, into the making of a portal.

He falls unconscious.

When he wakes, they are gone, the megascope smashed. His blood covers the floor, covers his side, his hands, everything. But not here. Not here. He is to die, he is dying, but _not here_.

He staggers to his feet somehow, numb, ignoring the blood that trails him, the vital fluid draining out of him with every step. The forest. That’s where he needs to be. His beautiful, lovely forest, free of cruelty, simply following the laws of nature as they are.

He makes it out of Flotsam without being stopped, without being noticed in the chaos that is going on there. He makes it past Lobinden as well and is glad to find Seherim not out to see him. He blacks out, he thinks, because when next he’s aware, he’s falling to his knees deeper in the forest, the moss soft, the leaves rustling. He manages to prop himself up against a great fallen tree, and smiles. Here is alright. He can barely feel anything now, soon he will sleep.

He is not surprised when Gwynbleidd appears, concern furrowing his brows. He already knew he would.

“Cedric,” Gwynbleidd says, kneeling, inhuman eyes sad but determined. “What happened?”

Cedric tells him. What else is he to do? His journey ends here, and the least he can do is be of help, in his last moments. Strangely, he feels almost clear-headed now, in a way he hasn’t been for so long. And so he knows, too, that Gwynbleidd must be told, must know what Cedric sees, how to regain his memory.

“In Aedirn… in a place tainted with dark magic…” he says, words slow, so slow, so tiring. “Where ghosts of the fallen will fight a great battle. Save their souls, and your memory will return.”

Gwynbleidd nods. He doesn’t quite understand, Cedric can tell, but he listens, he will remember. And eventually, he will understand.

Something changes, and he blinks rapidly, confused, unsettled. “What- what’s happening?” he asks. But even as Gwynbleidd looks around, answers him gently, he already knows. The warmth suffuses him, eases what pain was left, leaving nothing but content. Peace.

“My forest…” he breathes. He smiles, tears of relief and joy welling in his eyes as he looks to Gwynbleidd. “Va faill, Gwynbleidd. Farewell.”

His eyes slide shut, and he falls, falls, deep into the embrace of eternal sleep.

_Come sleep and make me whole_

_On the path to silence_

_Let me feel it within my soul_

_I rise on wings in wilderness_

_For sleep the riddle’s answer tells_

**Author's Note:**

> dh'oine - human  
> Eigean evelienn deireádh - Everyone must end  
> Que'n esse - Thus it will be/That is how it will be  
> Gwynbleidd - White Wolf  
> Ess'tedd - It is time  
> Va faill - Farewell
> 
> When it comes to the title, it is again lyrics from one of Gåte's songs, this one called "Svevn". The last, italicised lines are a loose translation of the last verse of the song. 
> 
> I had SO MANY FEELS when I wrote this, I can't even - I sat here for hours with a clump in my throat x3 Hope it gave you as a reader something! <3


End file.
